A Sacred Month


 

Released from the journey, set free,
the dogs dip into steely sea,
chasing the mocking gulls which land
and stealthily scour flattened sand.

 

Streaming loose, her telltale hair
tastes of the tide in wind washed air.
Sand-iced fingers snatch mermen’s haul,
plundered from Poseidon’s hall.

 

Chasing the curl of November foam,
restoring souls; away from home,
this sacred month of ebbing light,
time pillaged from another life.

 

No tourists wearing summer clothes.
No jaunty awnings, all are stowed
and mothballed for another spring
that moon and tides and time will bring.

 

High and safe on the harbour sides,
faded houses with shuttered eyes,
breathe the last of the autumn sun,
and ease into hibernation.

 

And later, wrapped in guesthouse sheets,
with briny lips and wind-whipped cheeks
we drift in timeless, suspended haze,
in secret, stolen winter days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
Tenby